Roger Aylworth: Adjusting to magic of new car

It wasn't an easy choice, having to drop an old friend for a new one, but there comes a time when change is the only option.

I suppose this story actually began a dozen years ago, when my dear bride, the saintly Susan, and I made a momentous decision.

From the time we were first married, vehicular transport meant buying something with four wheels and an engine that ran, more or less. It also had to be a machine we could afford, which limited our options.

The vehicles were old, ugly and by some strange quirk of fate almost always green.

We usually were the third or fourth owner of these machines. We had been married more than 25 years before we purchased a car that was manufactured in the same decade when we bought it.

The various machines had their failings, including periodically stranding us by the side of the road, but they also came with character.

The first car we ever owned was a faded pink, 1960 Rambler American, with a massive slash of rust cutting through the right front fender.

We called her "Esmeralda," and as strange as it may sound, Susan still speaks fondly of the machine, even though she once blew out a water pump and left us in the middle of the Mojave Desert.

We named most of our alleged transportation.

I recall one we called "Princess," because she was the prettiest used station wagon we had owned. When we bought her we knew she was afflicted by all sorts of potentially costly engine disorders, but before she cost us any significant repair money she died in an otherwise fairly minor crash.

Throughout our string of used vehicles I found myself trying to do auto repairs. There are lots of things I can do fairly well, and absolutely none of them involve automotive repairs.

Undaunted by my consistent failures, I would go to the parts store buy a how-to-fix-it manual for the appropriate make and model and attack the project. The fact the instructions always seemed to be written in a language only comprehensible by trained mechanics may have been part of my problem.

I did eventually come to accept that the quickest way to multiply the cost of a car repair was for me to try to do the fix first, leaving it to the real mechanic to repair the mess I made before attacking the root problem.

Near the turn of the millennium, I made a vow, with my right hand raised. I pledged that the absolute instant the thought of buying one of those repair manuals for my current vehicle entered my mind, I would immediately replace the machine.

That extremely wise vow led to another family experience. Susan and I went out to a new car lot and bought a vehicle nobody had ever owned before us.

For a bunch of good reasons this was Susan's car and she named it "Beethoven." Despite sort of a male name, Susan always thought of Beethoven as a girl.

She came with a new and wonderful thing that had never been part of our household before ... a warranty. A warranty is an amazing creation. The car maker promises the car will perform to a certain standard and, should it need open-hood surgery, they cover the cost.

I was used to vehicles that were guaranteed to run until the front wheels reached the pavement off the used car lot, and some of them didn't get that far, but this new car stuff was a revelation.

For the next 12 years we drove Beethoven all over the place. She never left us smiling hopefully at passing strangers as we stood stranded by the road because some vital part stopped functioning.

She treated us with love and devotion, but the day came when magical warranty expired and Beethoven's odometer hit 120,000 miles.

We went back to the dealership that introduced us to Beethoven. After test drives and much conversation, we decided to add "Elle" to the vehicular family.

Elle is bright, shiny and beautiful. She boasts a backup camera, and a gizmo that answers our cellphone and lets us talk to the callers right over the car radio. Elle is way cool.

Beethoven is still in the family, but Elle lives in the garage, while Beethoven sits by the curb until we can find her a good home.

We'll always remember you, Beethoven. You were our first after all.

Roger H. Aylworth is a staff writer with the Enterprise-Record. His column appears every Sunday and he can be reached at raylworth@chicoer.com.